


The Art of Creation

by squidmaid



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmaid/pseuds/squidmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes time to settle into a new world. She knows better than most, and he can't help but notice. Post-pacifist Soriel, and the trials of life and self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Creation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Life On the Surface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467049) by [FishPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishPrincess/pseuds/FishPrincess). 



> This little fic would not exist were it not for fishprincess' fic and the incredibly thorough beta reading of crudely_caniformed, plus the reading and encouragement of pontiffpainticus and Dom. You are all seriously the best.

The city was quiet at this hour. It was just that time of night where more adults wandered the sidewalks than cars whizzed by on the streets, more than a few of those late-night wanderers of the intoxicated variety, and those were the sorts of people that filed out of a a little hole-in-the-wall pub called The Digs that hosted open mic comedy every Thursday. Most of the patrons and performers were just regular people ― regular _humans_ ― having fun, but the crowd had, over time, grown used to a certain comedian that kept coming back, one who stood out from the usual lineup with a fairly unique act.

It wasn’t really the performer’s routine that stood out, though. There was a novelty beyond that, and though it appealed to some and completely drove others away, no one could argue it wasn’t an oddity. It was rumored as truly a sight to be witnessed.

Humans were still getting used to the idea of talking skeletons, after all, much less humorous ones. ( _Humerus_ , he would have said.)

The audience members exchanged comments as they filed out of the pub, smiling and joking amongst themselves or whispering, unsettled. When he finally stepped out onto the street himself, he heard soft footsteps from somewhere behind him, felt two fingers delicately tapping his shoulder.

His head turned in the slow, lazy way it did, brow bones just a fraction higher than usual before his gaze took her in and his grin got wider, his whole body turning to face the one seeking his attention. Suddenly, with the two of them a skeleton and this person being… well, herself, out in plain view on the sidewalk, he had a feeling they might both become a spectacle together. He briefly wondered if she cared.

“I am sorry I came so late. I would have come in, but…”

His shoulders rose and sank, his head tilting just so. “No problem, Tori. You wouldn’t have liked the air in there, anyway.”

Toriel blinked down at him, her long eyelashes like the fluttering of tiny wings. “Why not?”

“The atmosphere was a little… bone-chilling.”

The wink on delivery had her giggling immediately, like it was a reflex she couldn’t help anymore, and he felt the warm glow of pride in his chest. “I see. In any case, I thought that the least I could do was to walk you home. Especially since Papyrus was kind enough to watch Frisk for me when I asked...”

“Heh. Sure. I could use the help. You know I can be a real numbskull.”

Her laughter was pleasant and deep, and the way they fell into step down the sidewalk made the warm feeling settle into him in a way that he often forgot he missed so much until it was back again.

“So, the kid’s at our place, huh? What had you tied up?” he asked. He watched as her smile faded, and her gaze moved to the buildings beside them, up to the street lamps.

“It was another interview,” she eventually explained. “I think that it will be the last.”

Sans grunted at her side, a soft little _heh_. “Being a celebrity not your thing? I heard you were a crowd pleaser, back in the day.” He hoped that his smile, the way he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, told her that he meant it in a kind way.

“It is not being a public figure that I mind.” She chose each syllable carefully, the way she turned over each thought almost audible in her words.

He sensed how those thoughts remained unfinished, and she sighed in the silence he supplied her.

“I am sorry. I know that I should be grateful for these opportunities, when so many are having such a struggle to find paying work in a time like this.” She glanced at him again, too, her brows knit. It wasn’t difficult for him to deduce what she was thinking: _including you._ “You must think that I am being terribly selfish.”

“Hey, that’s a whole lot of credit you’re giving me,” he quipped, but then his tone sobered some. “And not nearly enough for yourself. I, uh, I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of selfish.”

The corners of her mouth turned up a little, but the way they dropped back down told him she wasn’t exactly convinced. “I would be fine with it. It is just…”

“Hey, I know. Fame’s like a broken window. Not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Her mouth twitched again, but she did not laugh; her gaze seemed harder, watching where she stepped. That warm feeling in Sans’ chest turned cold.

“Uh… Listen,” he said, watching her closely. “Why don’t you and the kid stay the night? We can tuck them in and hang out a while, and you don’t have to worry about the two of you walking back home in the dark.”

They both seemed to agree to stop walking for a moment, and she looked at him, eyes wide.

He didn’t give her a chance to speak, that look just a little worrying. “Papyrus has plenty of spare pillows and blankets, trust me. He’s kind of the fort expert.”

Her expression didn’t change much.

“And we can make hot chocolate. We’ve got a microwave and everything.” He freed a hand from his pocket, scratching at the back of his skull. Was he overstepping her boundaries? “Or, uh, not.”

“Truly, you would not mind?”

When she spoke, her voice tentative and almost guilty, he realized what that wide-eyed look she had actually meant. His posture relaxed visibly. “Nah.” His grin widened. “Come on. We shouldn’t keep ‘em waiting. They’re gonna lose it when we tell them.”

That soft, brief chuckle was enough, and they fell into step again. “Yes. You are right, of course.” Then, after a moment: “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

* * *

The quiet buzz of the television in front of the sofa where Sans and Toriel sat was a noticeable contrast to the enthusiastic chatter of earlier in the evening.

When the two of them had gotten in and explained the plan to Papyrus and Frisk, it had been decided (by exactly one person) that a puzzle game would be the absolute best way to celebrate. Several intense rounds of Connect Four (which Frisk was “dastardly good” at) later, the younger members of the small party had tired themselves out. Sans had offered the guests his bed, with which Papyrus had argued that Sans' bed wasn't even _made_ , to which Sans had replied with, “Oh yeah.” The new project had become making Sans' bed reasonably sleepworthy, after which everyone had received double the tucking and double the bedtime stories, and by the time the lights had been flipped off and Sans and Toriel found themselves back downstairs by themselves, the quiet was companionable. Sans followed up with his promise of hot chocolate, and the two of them sat next to one another in the living room, warm mugs in hand and some human program about the exciting and mysterious world of monsters playing on TV.

Sans tuned out the voice of the newscaster as it discussed the properties of magical foods, moving from subject to subject, science to conjecture to rumor. It was when the words “former queen” came out of the television speakers that the quiet became uncomfortable.

The way Toriel's brows dipped heavy over her eyes as she stared at the TV, the lips on her maw pursed, both hands wrapped tight around the mug she was holding ― they all told Sans this was the thing that had been bothering her, but he didn't feel entitled to change the channel for her. Instead, he watched.

A human woman sat with Toriel on the TV screen. The conversation began friendly and cordial, innocuous enough. She asked about life in the underground and Toriel's home life now, topics that Toriel seemed more than happy to supply answers to. But as the interview went on, the questions got more personal. She asked Toriel what it had been like, ruling the underground? Why had she decided to give up leading with Asgore? What did she think of the controversy surrounding him nowadays? Did she feel out of place, not being in a position of power? Did she miss it? And most relevantly, were there any more boss monsters among monsterkind outside of the two of them? Did they not have any parents? Any children?

The Toriel on the screen deflecting each probing question seemed to be much more composed than the Toriel next to him on the sofa, who had practically curled around her cocoa mug, knees bent up and head lowered. Entitled or not, Sans reached for the remote and hit the power button.

She looked up at him when the screen went black, and he couldn't tell whether she was more surprised or relieved. “Oh― You didn't have to…”

“Nothing good on at this hour, huh?” he said.

Toriel kept watching him for a moment. Then, “I... suppose not.” She seemed to realize the position her body had taken, her hands relaxing around the mug. She brought it to her mouth to sip as an afterthought.

“No... There is no sense in pretending you did not see that,” she finally said. Sans had a feeling he should have turned that TV off a long time ago. “I should have known... It tends to come to this, does it not?” She smiled wryly down at her cocoa.

“Dunno,” he answered, too late to realize she was being rhetorical.

“They are just curious. They do not know…” She shook her head. “It is my fault. Should I not have been prepared, after all this time? It is inevitable that they would want to know about us. That they would make connections…”

Toriel looked at him again, through him, her gaze cloudy, and he felt frozen in his seat. “I just… do not want to be associated with him. I do not want... to think about these things.” He felt worse when she looked away. “I am sorry, Sans,” she breathed, her eyes falling shut, a smile forcing its way onto her face. “You do not deserve to hear all of this. It is not your problem.”

He wished he were better at saying things that mattered, that he could come up with more meaningful than a silly joke to try and make her smile for just a moment.

“But I appreciate that you listen,” she added, and when she looked his way this time, he knew that look in her eyes was for him. “So much.”

“Yeah,” he replied, a hand moving toward her, and he was only a little surprised when hers moved to meet it, their fingers twining amongst each other. She smiled, and he smiled, too. “No problem, Tori.”

* * *

<be there in a sec.>

Sans pocketed his phone again as he shuffled along, glancing up at the familiar, glowing sign ahead of him on the relatively unfamiliar sidewalk. For the first time, it had not been his own idea to visit Grillby's tonight; Toriel insisted on supporting Sans’ good friend's business, now that Grillby had gotten his pub established again on the surface. It was rare that Toriel was comfortable enough to let herself go out, but tonight Frisk was visiting Undyne and Alphys, and Sans certainly wasn't going to turn her down.

The air wasn't nearly as cold as the air in Snowdin had been, despite the fact that the weather had dropped to a chilly thirty-something overnight, frosty little clouds hanging in the air every time he exhaled. Perfect weather for a burger, he had told Papyrus earlier, who had questioned whether Sans thought there was such a thing as _bad_ burger weather. Naturally, Sans had replied with a “nope.”

His phone buzzed again, and he grinned as he fished it out to check the screen.

<Your friends are telling me all about you! They are so kind. I will see you soon! Sincerely, Toriel.>

His hand found the door handle he had used for years, tugging it and relishing the warm draft of air that welcomed him when he stepped inside. The pub was filled with both old and new faces ― some humans he did not recognize, but many friends ― and that in itself was enough to make the trip worth it. What got his attention, though, was the bright “Oh!” that came from a seat at the bar. He offered brief greetings to familiar faces as he sidled up to take the next seat over.

“I did not realize you were being so literal,” Toriel said, looking down and him with wide eyes and a kind smile as she tucked her phone into a nice little bag beside her. In fact, everything about her was nice: her medium-length polka dot dress, the charming pink beads around her wrist, the gentle scent of flower petals and pie crust. The word “nice” didn't quite cut it, actually, and for the first time (Toriel seemed to be giving him a lot of those lately), he almost felt out of his element in this bar.

“Sorry,” he replied after pulling himself together, one eyelid lowering in a lazy wink. “I’ll try to be more abstract next time.”

She chuckled, her face aglow with firelight from Grillby’s face on the other side of the bar. “No, please, by all means, be as literal as you like. I am just glad you are here.”

Sans glanced over his shoulder at the smiling and chatting and munching faces, briefly back to the pair of glasses on Grillby’s otherwise featureless face, then finally settling on Toriel’s. Her warm burgundy eyes were crinkled up in a smile that was aimed at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Just then, he noticed the drink in front of her, and his grin widened a fraction as he took it in; she saw him looking and straightened up.

“Oh, it is only cranberry juice,” she blurted out sheepishly. “I did not want to start without you.” She leaned closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “Though I have been told that you have some unusual choices in beverages. Is this true?”

“Heh.” Busted. That mocking look in her eyes told him that the bird monster on the other side of Toriel had been plenty forthcoming about Sans’ unimpressive dietary habits. Well, Papyrus had been bound to blurt it out in front of her someday during one of his critical brotherly “assessments.”

“You figured out my dark secret, huh? Guess you’re pretty good at _lighting_ up people’s lives.”

She laughed again, one hand covering her muzzle in that bashful way she did when people complimented her. “Oh, please.” Her head inclined toward the bartender. “Do not let me stop you from ordering what you like. In fact, I would not mind a suggestion. I am being rather indecisive…”

“You ever thought about a ‘sunrise’?”

“That sounds de _light_ ful,” she answered, smiling mischievously, and he could not help laughing at how seamlessly she took the bait.

It was not long before they were both set up with burgers and drinks, continuing to trade jokes while they ate and, for now, taking the drinks slow. But he could not help noticing how much easier and louder her laughter came with each sip, how she swayed side to side in her seat to the music on the jukebox every now and then, how after half of her drink was gone she rested her hand on her cheek and stared at him intently when he spoke.

He found himself wondering how often she let herself act so carefree, and he could find himself neither recalling nor imagining a time it seemed very plausible, so he came to the very scientific conclusion of “probably almost never.”

Silly jokes and puns eventually led to telling stories; as Toriel related one of her own, Sans noticed that her loose movements had become more tense.

“They had concerns about my ‘experience’,” she explained with half incredulous laughter. “Can you believe that? I should say that I know a good deal more about their history than many of them, for having actually lived during some of it!”

“That sucks,” he sympathized, squirting half a bottle each of mustard and ketchup into his empty glass. “So they won’t let you teach in any of their schools?”

“No,” she sighed. “I will have to stick to tutoring for now, unless something changes.”

He was quiet for a moment, scooping up his glass and swirling its contents around (mostly, they just jiggled, their colors slowly mixing into an ugly shade of brown). “You know, I think you could do something. To change it, I mean.”

She turned to him, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” He shrugged, choosing his next words carefully. “There have been other places set up because of certain people’s… suggestions. If you brought up building a new school for monsters with the right guy, I’m sure it’d, uh. Be taken into consideration.”

Toriel’s brows knit with understanding, and she looked back down at the bar. Sans cleared his throat, already starting to feel a little guilty for the idea, but before he could say anything else, she spoke.

“You think that I should talk to him.”

“Uh,” he started. It was no big secret that their king was not the best at ideas, and that he had been working with his own people (and the humans, to an extent) to help monsters get their own businesses and institutions established on the surface that would benefit everyone. Part of that had naturally involved listening to what his people really wanted, and even beyond the fact that Toriel would never make a bad suggestion in a million years, Sans doubted that Asgore would ignore a proposal from someone who meant as much to him as she did.

Toriel sighed ― the deep, heavy kind that made her slump a little ― and now he was _really_ regretting opening his mouth, if you could call it that. “I know,” she said. “It is illogical to hold him at such a distance now. I suppose that is obvious.”

“Not, uh, not really?”

She blinked again, her eyes widening.

“I mean,” he continued, “I don’t blame you. It’s not like I’ve been there, so I’m not in any place to judge, but I’d probably feel the same way. It’s just, you know…” He shrugged again. “I want to see you get what you want, is all.”

He had already started casually tipping back his condiment abomination when she smiled at him, forcing him to quickly lower the glass and look her in the face with the taste of everything sharp and acidic in his mouth to contrast with the sweet look she was giving him. He swallowed thickly, feeling heat in his skull that had nothing to do with mustard.

“I understand,” she said, and when her hand slid over the bar so that it was just next to his, her body leaning so their shoulders and their heads touched, he was not thinking about the other eyes in the pub, what the other patrons might have been whispering. She was warm and relaxed against him, her soft, all-encompassing presence blotting out everything else, and all he was thinking was that he must have been the luckiest monster in the world. It seemed strange when she said “Thank you,” as if he were the one that deserved it.

He had not realized he had mumbled the statement back to her until he felt her shifting, a large paw brushing over the back of his skull and making him shiver, and her nose was warm and soft against his cheekbone, and so was her mouth.

“I do not know why,” she said, her voice closer and gentler than it had ever been, “but you are welcome.”

* * *

“So she asks me how many boxes we have left, and I say I can go check.” Sans paused to sip from his mug. “But then she says no, I’m supposed to be keeping up with the inventory. So when I tell her ‘thirty-two’, _she_ goes to check, and then she starts getting suspicious that I got it right.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Toriel shook her head. “I do not understand people like that. What does she truly expect from you? It is completely irrational!”

Sans shrugged. “I guess skeletons just get under her skin.”

Toriel’s laughter was just a little wheezy, muffled behind her paws, and something about how she tried to keep it down only made it better.

It was early, after all ― only about seven-something on a Saturday morning ― and she would not want to wake Frisk up. These conversations had become something of a ritual for the two of them, though, on the nights when Sans had those long, late shifts that bled into the morning. He would text to see if she were awake (she always was, did the lady even sleep?), then slip inside, letting her settle him at the table with a cup of tea or cocoa or a snack if he had not eaten much during the night, and they would chat a little while before Sans headed home to sleep the day away.

Outside the window, the light was a pale blue that filtered through the trees, not quite high or late enough in the season to bathe everything in gold yet. Mist curled over the grass, and Sans found himself momentarily distracted to watch it hang there, like a soft blanket over the ground. He had not realized that he’d been zoned out, not hearing her at all, until Toriel said his name.

“Huh? Oh― Heh, sorry.” He rubbed at his skull, and Toriel watched him worriedly from her seat.

“Do you need to go?” she asked.

He shifted in his chair. “Nah, not yet. What were you saying?”

That expression on her face didn’t look much less concerned, but she tried again. “Oh, I was just… saying that I paid someone a visit last night.”

“Oh yeah?” His hands wrapped around his mug again, letting the warmth seep into his bones.

“Yes,” she answered in that quiet and stiff way that meant she was thinking too hard, and her gaze left his for a moment. Something told him that this visit was no ordinary one, and he willed himself to focus.

“Who’d you see?”

She looked at him again, and her mouth curled into a weak smile. “It was Asgore.”

“Oh,” he said, like a sleep-deprived idiot. “Oh, okay,” he amended. “How, uh… How’d that go?”

Toriel rested her paws on the table, her fingers knitting together, and he watched as she moved one thumb in a slow back-and-forth over them.

“It was difficult, at first,” she finally said, staring out the window in much the same way he had a minute ago. “But I wanted to take your advice.”

Oh, yeah. His advice. What had he said, again?

Toriel looked at him, and he resisted the urge to squirm, feeling much like he were failing a very important quiz. But she was smiling, and the feeling dissipated as soon as it had come.

“We are going to get our own school,” she announced, and everything suddenly clicked, and Sans was smiling, too.

“Oh, man. Congrats, Tori.” He held up his mug like he was proposing a toast. “I knew you could do it.”

She laughed at the silly gesture, but it was what she said next that took him off-guard. She said, “I do not think I could have done it without you.”

“Me?” He set the mug back down. “Heh. No way. It was obvious you could do it.”

“It was not the action itself that I needed help with,” she argued, watching him in a warm way that made him feel uncertain. “But for some time, I had convinced myself that I was… unable to face him. I refused.” She was smiling again, her gaze a little moist. “But _you_ helped me to see that my conviction was unfair. Not for him… but for myself.”

Sans found that he could only watch her with the same dumbstruck expression. He was grateful  when she continued.

“It has been a very long time,” Toriel said, “since...”

“You don’t have to,” he interrupted, but she shook her head.

“Since our son died,” she finished, her paws squeezing one another tight. “I did not think forgiveness was possible, for either of us. I am still not certain, but…”

Sans found himself reaching for those tight-squeezed paws before he could think, his bony hand prying one carefully away from the other so he could hold it. It did not feel like enough. He was not sure it ever would. That watery gaze was pointed at him again, her mouth whispering his name, and he felt so awake.

“You’re good, Tori,” he said, and the words were so little, but they were enough to make her lean a little closer, to clasp his hand so she could press it to her cheek, instead, and it made him feel better, too. “I got you.”

“I know,” she breathed, her face pressing that much more into his hand, and she was smiling again, so slightly it made his bones ache. “I know,” she said again, a little louder.

Sans was not certain what time it had happened. Only that it was sometime after seven on a Saturday morning, between the realization of something swelling in his ribcage, and the revelation that, impossibly, she must be feeling it, too. But he had never felt anything warmer than her arms around him, softer than her fur against his face, better than the way “thank you” finally sounded just like “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So let us create  
> What we need each other to be  
> And I'll be what you need  
> For me to be.  
> \-- Jukebox the Ghost


End file.
